


the summoning of war

by sapphicshakespeare



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Gen, i would tag the other characters but they're only mentioned like twice so, it's not TECHNICALLY plagarism, no beta we die like (insert character of your choice), patroclus is dead lmao, so if it sounds familiar that's why, this is based off of a thing i saw on tumblr a million years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26978521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicshakespeare/pseuds/sapphicshakespeare
Summary: Achilles stands on the precipice of the cliff, hands stained dark and grimy with a gritty mix of sand and blood. He screams to the sky, a beckoning, a challenge. He has not come this far to be denied by the gods.“Ares!” The sound is guttural, tearing through the skies, an undeniable fury. “I call upon the god of war!”
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 77





	the summoning of war

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: there is some mention of violence, rape & murder. it's nothing more graphic than in the book, but still.  
> enjoy, i guess !

Achilles stands on the precipice of the cliff, hands stained dark and grimy with a gritty mix of sand and blood. He screams to the sky, a beckoning, a challenge. He has not come this far to be denied by the gods.

“Ares!” The sound is guttural, tearing through the skies, an undeniable fury. “I call upon the god of _ war!” _

A moment passes. Then, another. Ragged and spent, Achilles crumples to the ground. All of his day has been spent slaughtering animals, lighting pyres, creating makeshift shrines from the coarse chunks of earth lugged to the cliff from his hill.  _ Patroclus’ _ hill. The rage within him smolders anew, spurred on by the memories of calm nights spent looking out over the plains of Troy; full of kings and common folk, fathers and sons, the trail of Achilles’ devastation. Patroclus’ head on his shoulder, his hand on his knee. The warmth between the two of them. Calm after the storm.

He raises his head, bellows again. “I call upon the  _ god _ of  _ war!” _ His voice is shattering, a ewer slung against unforgiving earth, spreading a constellation of shards across the ground. Achilles had thought it would be enough, at first. Hector. Killing Hector. As he drove the spear through Hector’s heart, he’d thought his anger would falter, his pain dissipate into the air, and finally he would know peace.

It had not been so. If anything, Hector’s blood against the bleached stone walls of Troy had only stoked the flame of his loss. It was not enough, it would never be enough. He needed them all to suffer. Every last soldier who stood, watching, awaiting orders, when his Patroclus was stolen from him. They deserved death. They deserved worse. To feel his pain. He could not do it alone, truly; and so it was that he found himself here, demanding the gods to intervene just one more time.

He did not notice her at first. She is a slight girl, delicate and poised, skin radiant and unmarred by the faults of adulthood. Her brown eyes no longer held hope, excitement, love. The flash of her ankle no longer roused excitement through a crowd of tired soldiers; now, it pulls acidic bile from the caverns of Achilles’ stomach and gathers in his throat. He swallows it down.

She does not speak, not at first. Her bridal gown is smoothed against her skin, blown back by the faint breeze brushing across the cliff. If he could croak out some greeting, surely he would, but his throat is as dry as the air around him, and he chokes on his words.  _ She cannot be here. She cannot. _

“Achilles.” It slices through him, along with the realization that he's never heard her speak before. Her voice is deep and soothing, laced with honey. It sounds nothing like her screams. He wonders if it would have sounded the same all those years ago, as she recited her vows to the heavens. If only he had seen Diomedes a moment sooner.

“Iphegenia. Why - ” he stops. He does not know what to say. He only knows what he cannot. “Have the gods sent you in their stead? Where is he?”

“Who,  _ Aristos Achaion? _ Dear husband,” the word is spat, in a way that Achilles never thought her capable of. Though, he had only known her for a few seconds. Still.

“Tell me what it is you seek. I will provide.”

“I.” It suddenly feels terrible, a selfish thing, a thing unworthy of words. He cannot tell her that he wishes their wives to be stolen, their daughters raped, their fields to become barren. How can he repeat such atrocities to her? She, who knew of the things he wished for all too well. Her eyes darken.

“I called for Ares.”

“You called for the god of war.” Each syllable is sharp, pointed. Achilles takes a step backwards. He has never been afraid of confrontation before, but something about her sends chills through his body.

“The god. Of war.”

“Ares is not the god of war.” Achilles lifts his head. He wishes he had not. “He is the god of violence. Of death, of the loosing of souls. You do not wish as much for those men, do you?” He says nothing.

“No,” she answers for him. “You do not.”

When Achilles finds his voice again, it is a struggle to push the sound past his gritted teeth. “What, then, of Discord?”  _ Enyo _ is the name he calls her by. It is an old one, archaic, stronger than that of her watered-down present.

“You do not seek chaos.” There is laughter in her voice, but it is not light or gentle or kind. “You will not tell me what you are looking for. I admire your resilience. But we both know what you want.” She pauses. Achilles hears the gurgle in her throat, the sound that has haunted him since that perfect summer day. He does not meet her eyes. He cannot bear to see it again. “I know why you have summoned me. Because it is  _ me _ you have summoned, isn’t it?”

“I want war.”

“You want war. You will not be satisfied with violence, nor disorder, nor a fair fight. You want the horrors that befell me to strike against all those who wronged you.” Iphegenia has slowly become louder, her voice commanding the world around her. Storm clouds gather above his head. Achilles steals a glance up at her, and he cannot force the bile back down his throat any longer. The image he sees is one of complete abomination. The young girl’s eyes have gone completely dark now, as pitch black as the bottom of the churning sea where his mother, Thetis, dwells. Her bridal gown, once a radiant white, glowing with purity, is soaked with blood that pours steadily from a gash in her throat; rivulets of crimson-gold glide down her calves.

“Do not lie to me.” The goddess’ voice is shrill and breaking now, like the clash of swords on shields or the sound of a skull caved in. “You long to see that look of terror in their eyes, the same look that passed through mine on the day I was murdered as penance to the gods. My throat was slit by my own father. What was meant to be my wedding became my execution. My blood, innocent and undeserving, was spilt in the name of war.  _ War. _ And I am not the only one.”

Achilles can barely stand now, overtaken by a dread unlike any other. Somewhere, someone screams. Vaguely, he realizes it was him.

_ Chryseis, the priest’s daughter. _

_ Briseis, Patroclus’ closest friend. _

_ Euphrosyne, a poor farm girl. _

_ Iantha. _

_ Nephele. _

_ Korene. _

The list goes on, and on, and on. Nothing is spoken, yet Achilles feels the weight of each name pulled out of thin air slam into him with the force of a thousand Trojan foot soldiers. Images of the girls flash before his eyes - battered and beaten, pulled onto the dais to be passed out as bed-slaves to the very men who murdered their fathers. Their screams fill his head, their agony unbearable.

“You call on the goddess of war. You call on all of these things, wicked and unspeakable and cruel. You demand the torment of a hundred thousand men from me, the likes of which you have never known.”

He is choking now, thick metallic liquid spilling into and out of his lungs. He knows it to be blood.  _ Aristos Achaion, _ the best of the Greeks, the man who has killed tens of thousands of Trojans, is broken on the ground in front of the small goddess, chest heaving.

“You call for war, knowing what comes with it.  _ Asking _ for what comes with it. Knowing what you do, O Prince of Phthia, I ask you this.  _ Achilles."  _

His name is hissed like a curse, a twisted thing that you would not wish upon your worst enemy.

_ “How dare you invoke my name?” _

**Author's Note:**

> hah, wasn't that a really fun concept ? i swear, if i can find the original post i was inspired by, i'll link it below. iphigenia rights, patroclus rights, briseis rights: you know the drill. comments & kudos are appreciated !!


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